


The Showcase

by Ette



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Performing Arts School AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8522566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ette/pseuds/Ette
Summary: Zevran fails to “assassinate” Tabris at a house party; when she takes his punishment for him, he swears himself into her service. As luck would have it, she’s very much in need of his skills.
Alternatively titled "one word from you".





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much all angst & over-dramatics. Pairs well with sad music.

_Prelude_

Sleeping with Zevran is only getting harder. From the beginning, he’d had a penchant for pillow talk; words like darling, beautiful, mi amora, shouldn’t pierce her heart like steel arrowheads, not after all this time, but it’s harder for her now to detach the real Zevran from the person he is in the bedroom, to remind herself it’s his habit to say things he means only in the moment. She might have to take a break if things keep going like this.

It’s no longer night when Veronica steps outside his building, but it doesn’t look like day either. She feels some camaraderie with the sky above her head, stretching gray as far as the eye can see. “We could both do with a good cry,” she murmurs. She lights a cigarette she’d nicked from Zevran, half hoping her new friend overhead might do her lungs a favor and put it out, and starts to walk to class.

_Overture_

He doesn’t remember the first time he saw her, but he couldn’t forget the first time they met. Attending a small performance art school is like that, faces familiar long before names. They were at a house party at the beginning of the school year, somewhere the both of them only had a tenuous connection to. No one wanted to be inside and alone on a Friday night, not when the air was warm and scholastic obligations minimal. Otherwise, they seldom would’ve attended the same parties; fate must’ve been on their side.

“How much longer do we have to wait?” Ignacio whispered, casting a glance over his shoulder. “It’s been at least fifteen minutes since Taliesen took his turn-”

“-and I wasn’t caught, anyways.” Taliesen grinned and waved the bracelet he’d slipped off an unwitting girl’s wrist. “It’s probably safe to pass the torch on.” His gaze turned to Zevran.

“I’m not one to turn down a challenge.” He handed his drink off to Ignacio. “Who’ll it be, gentlemen?” Ignacio moved to survey the room, but Taliesen stopped him with a hand to the shoulder. “I’ve got someone in mind already. The girl in the black top, standing by the door.”

There was a group of a few people clumped in the direction he had nodded, but it was easy enough to pick out Taliesen’s type. Dark hair, narrow eyes, so pretty you had to look at her twice to make sure it wasn’t a trick of the light.

“She’s not wearing a purse. Or a bracelet, as far as I can tell,” Ignacio said. “What the hell’s he supposed to take from her, her pants?” After looking the girl over and catching the glint in Taliesen’s eye, though, Zevran could guess his plan.

“I could go for the pants, but that might take some time.” He smiled wryly. “She’s wearing earrings. Something dangly like that shouldn’t be too difficult to slip off.”

“You’re confident. Good - girls like that.” Taliesen laughed, clapped him on the back and pushed him towards his mark. “Best of luck to you. Don’t fuck up.”

Without stumbling, Zevran moved out of the girl’s line of sight, slipping to the edge of the room. When he closed in he nudged a rather inebriated man, whose momentum carried him back and - staggering, yelling - he barreled towards her. Zevran just managed to pull her out of his path.

“Careful there.” He looked straight into the woman’s wide, startled gaze. “Are you alright?”

“Just fine, thanks to you.” She looked over her shoulder, down at the boy who’d nearly crushed her. Zevran took his chance then, darting his hand out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and sliding her earring away in the same motion. Feeling the cool metal in his palm, he was marveling at how clean the act was, how fast he’d moved when, in a shot of movement twice as quick, she caught his hand in midair.

“Nice try.” In his surprise, she easily pried his fingers open and took her earring from him. “Honestly though, you Crows should play your assassin game with the freshmen. The rest of us have caught on.”

He did his best to regain his bravado, but could only seem to blink at her. “Nonsense. Any skilled Crow can steal from a mark who knows they’re being targeted.”

“I take it you’re not skilled, then?”

“On the contrary. I’m one of the best.” Now, he couldn’t help but smile. “Have you ever considered being a dancer? You’ve got incredible reflexes.”

“Not in this lifetime,” she snorted. Her gaze fell behind his shoulder, and he knew what she saw without turning. “Your friends are laughing at you.”

“Some friends they are. It’s one thing to laugh at my failure - quite another to laugh when failure means certain death.”

“Tell me, what is the punishment for losing this ridiculous game?” He told her. He found her following grin to be absolutely terrifying, but in the way old gods inspired terror - something to fear even while you followed it off a cliff. In past lives, he could imagine this girl moved mountains for fun.

“Well, it would be awful of me to humiliate you and send you off to your death, wouldn’t it?” She said and, before he knew what she meant, she was walking away. This is how, upon meeting Veronica Tabris, he watched her down seven shots of tequila in just as many minutes. She drank for an audience, drawing roaring encouragements from Ignacio and Taliesen despite neither of them knowing so much as her name. Zevran took the three shots she left him at his leisure, in her shadow, grinning while he watched the performance.

Looking back, he wonders, was he already in love with her then? Have the bells in her laugh, the sharpness of her gaze and the cut of her smile been there all along? Or did all the things he adores about her blossom overnight, while they slept side by side, his arms around her waist and her head nestled in his chest (even while she’d sworn she didn’t cuddle)?

He can’t know for sure when and how she colored his vision. But he knows he wanted to sleep with her that night, maybe as soon as she’d grabbed his hand. He knows that even then his thirst was not the kind that would be quenched in an evening, but would entangle him.

That night he took her home early, though, and held back her hair while she puked behind a tree. “Dancers have fucking stupid traditions.” She’d wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “You’re the meatheads of art school, you know that?”

“I suggested we split the drinks fifty-fifty.”

“Look at the size of you!” She waved her hand at him. “You never couldn't have drank another drop.”

“We are, more or less, the same size.” He smiled while she wandered ahead, his logic met with a few grumbles and a grunt. The ten minute walk to her apartment took them about twenty, but the windows glowed yellow when they got there. Zevran took it as a good omen - he hoped her roommate was awake to care for her.

“Thanks for walking me back.” She slurred her words, but less than when they’d left the party.

“It was the least I could do, seeing as I got you into this mess.” He paused, watching her dig through her bag. “Could I see your phone?”

She shot him a suspicious look, but handed it over without argument. He put his number and name in her contact list and, as a note, added, “ _I pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation - this I swear_.”

“It only seems fair, seeing as I do owe you my life,” he said when he gave it back.

As soon as she had her phone in her hands, she looked to see what he’d done. He was pleased to watch a grin spread over her face.

“Zevran?” She looked up at him, using his name for the very first time. “You are so going to regret this.”

xxxx

After their first meeting, Zevran seemed to pop up around every corner. They were in the same Orlesian History lecture hall, their next classes were in the same direction. They frequented the same coffee shop; her favorite practice room was a floor below his.

When she first saw him, she was startled - she was still embarrassed about needing to be walked home, though she would never admit it - but he broke into a wide smile as soon as their eyes met, and instantly smoothed away her unease.

“My hero.” He’d stopped in the middle of the aisle. “I didn’t realize you took this class, too.”

“Yeah, well, here I am.” She shrugged.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all.” He was already moving into the row, and plopped his things down to her left.

“Fabulous. I may need you to save me a second time,” he said, looking up at her while he pulled out a notebook. “I confess I find history to be a terrible bore, and no doubt I’ll only be more distracted sitting beside you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t sit here, then.” She grinned at him. “I’d hate to be a distraction.”

“No no, that wouldn’t do. Now that I know you’re in the room, you’ll draw my gaze no matter where I sit. It’ll be easiest to have you right here, and let my eyes rest.”

He continued to talk to her through the whole class, and she ignored him steadfastly just to try to get a rise out of him. Either he caught on to the farce or was remarkably determined, she thought, as he kept it up the next class, and the next. She guessed he was the former - she had a hard time concealing her laughter even under her hand.

Before too long she remembered the note in her phone, and had him carry her books between classes. Zevran seemed happy to play along, lamenting that she was squandering his skills but still offering low bows when they passed each other on campus. The blossoming relationship brought mixed reactions from her friends. Leliana and Morrigan were both utterly amused; Alistair was perplexed.

“What in Andraste’s name is going on between the two of you?” he had said, his brow knitted, still watching the blonde elf walk away after a brief interaction. “Are you two - you know - involved?”

“Would that be any of your business?” She quirked an eyebrow.

“Maybe not, but he’s just got a reputation, and I’d hate to see you get mixed up with him.” She had laughed at this, which only deepened Alistair’s frown.

“He’s certainly no blushing virgin, but he’s not dishonest about what he wants.” She gave Alistair a gentle pat on the arm. “As long as he’s upfront, I don’t see the harm.”

“And what does he want from you?”

She turned to look over her shoulder and, when she couldn’t glance a blonde head of hair, thought he was out of sight. Then she caught his eye, and realized he was looking back at her, too.

“The same thing most men want from women. But maybe he doesn’t mind my company.”

She smiled, and saw his mouth move in return.

xxxx

She grabbed his arm one day after class, and he paused with his book in hand.

“Is there something you’d like?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow.

“Yeah, actually,” she let his arm go and grinned. “I’m calling you on the favor - I’ve got need of your talents.”

“My dear, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that. My place or yours?”

She smacked his arm even while she was laughing. “Don’t be a perv. No, I’m putting together a piece for a showcase, actually - it’s kind of a part of my scholarship - and I need a dancer. If you’ve got time later, would you maybe meet me in one of the practice rooms, listen to what we’ve got so far, think about helping a girl out?”

“It will depend, lovely girl.” She’d starting gathering her things so he followed, and they trailed behind most of their classmates while exiting the room. “How much time would it take? I do have some responsibilities, and I’d hate to overextend myself.”

“Well, it’s only a small group, and the showcase isn’t for a few more months. For a while, we’ll probably only meet once a week.”

“In that case, I’ll consider it.”

They’d made it outside, where the crisp air toyed with strands of hair that had fallen from her bun, and he found the smile she gave him to be rather radiant. It took her some time to detail exactly which practice room to go to, and they both had to scurry off to class immediately after. He couldn’t very well focus - not on his lecture, not on lunch with Taliesen - until three hours later when he stepped into the practice room, and his mind magically slid back into place.

He recognized everyone gathered: he’d knew Leiliana and Alistair as Veronica’s friends, had heard of Morrigan by reputation and knew the Quanari was a brass player (even if he didn’t know his name). If they’d been talking, they stopped as soon as he stepped in.

“This is an odd party.”

In the far corner of the room, Veronica laughed. She was clearly the focal point of the group, seated behind a glossy black piano with the rest of her band scattered around her.

“I think that’s an understatement.” She rose from the bench, and he walked to meet her. “Zevran, meet everyone. Everyone, meet Zevran.”

Only Leliana’s greeting - a cheery, “It’s a pleasure,” - struck him as sincere. Morrigan and the Quanari seemed fairly indifferent to his arrival; Alistair eyed him with unmasked suspicion.

“We’re a skeleton crew so far. Alistair’s our violinist, Leliana’s on the flute, Morrian plays cello and Sten’s got trombone.” She’d pointed while she spoke, and her finger hovered towards the Quanari. “Then of course there’s me.”

“On the keys, I presume?” He nodded at the piano.

“You’ve got it.” She sat back down, folding her hands over her lap. “So, we’re gonna play what we’ve got for you. I just want to make it really, really clear beforehand that I don’t know a damned thing about choreography. If you decide to do me this favor you’ll basically be making everything up yourself.” Her speech was slow and deliberate, obviously well rehearsed. He could all but feel her gaze piercing him. “But that means if we play the song through and it doesn’t really click for you - you don’t feel any kind of connection, or whatever - then agreeing to scribble up a dance anyways isn’t particularly helpful. Clear?”

“You’re going for authenticity?”

“Exactly.” She bobbed her head up and down. “And if your dance doesn’t fit the tone of the piece, I doubt I’ll know the difference.”

“That is a lot of responsibility for one man.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” she smiled at him and, despite his misgivings, he felt suddenly more at ease.

“Great, well,” Alistair interrupted them, his voice laced with irritation, “if that’s it, then, can we get on with it?”

“Definitely,” she only looked startled for a second, before she put her hands on the keys and tranquility washed over her face. He expected her to begin the song but, to his left, Sten played a low, tinny note. As quietly as he could manage, he stepped back to take in the whole scene.

The song burned slow, starting with the trombone and cello that laced and produced a sound like dark velvet. But the build was fast, and gained momentum with the entrance of the piano and violin. The piano was not the feature of the piece, he didn’t think, but Veronica’s playing somehow led as well as any composer; the group was able to cling to her tempo, to follow her rises and falls. He couldn’t imagine why she had been worried about connecting with the music - it was an incredible piece, if a little rough around the edges. At the close, he felt his heart still beating fast, and cleared his throat when she looked up at him.

There must have been something in his expression, because she paused for a long moment before asking what he thought.

He took a moment, too. But then he smiled, and said, “I think I can work something out.”

xxxx

Zevran started hanging behind after rehearsals under the guise of helping her clean. Really, he was always asking questions about his dancing, about her opinions of ballet moves with Orlesian names she could never recognize. Eventually he sank to demonstrations, which she received with enthusiasm. In truth, she thought he could make jumping jacks look like art; she still isn’t sure how she got lucky enough to rope him into her performance.

“What exactly is this showcase for?” He’d asked one day on their way out. “I haven’t heard any other students talking about it, which is strange, since you lead one to believe it’s of such dire importance.”

She had been dreading this conversation, and tried to answer casually: “Yeah, well, for most people it isn’t such a big deal any more. It’s one of the requirements to keep me in the Warden program, which pays my tuition.” She snuck a glance at him after she’d said the words. To his credit, Zevran was still keeping stride with her, even if his eyebrows had risen to touch his hairline.

“You’re one of the Wardens?” He, too, attempted to act natural, but incredulity laced his tone. “Then does that mean that Alistair- “

“Is the other Warden, yes.”

They walked in silence, passing another pair of students. When the steps behind them had faded, he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

The condolence was familiar. She’d received it often in the past year, in the time since the plane carrying the Warden orchestra went down in the middle of the ocean. Thirty of the forty-three musicians and instructors on board had been recovered, if only as corpses. The rest had to settle for a burial at sea.

“It’s okay.” She smiled - was that the right course, in this scenario? She never could tell. “I had only just started in the program, so I didn’t know anyone on the plane that well. I mean, the whole thing is still a tragedy, but I was probably only a bit more touched by it than you were.”

They had reached the entrance of the building, the place where the two usually parted ways. But Zevran stopped in front of the door, his face drawn pensive and closed.

“I never know what to say in these situations,” he admitted.

“I hope you seldom find yourself in them.”

“Yes, I do as well,” he managed a smile. He was typically so natural with his gestures, but on that day when he reached to cup her chin in his palm the action seemed anything but casual. He was only a step away from her, his golden eyes gleaming and, for a second, she was certain he was going to kiss her.

But he only smiled, and said, “You must be quite good, to be a Warden.”

At this, she had managed a sputtering laugh and a hasty denial. He took his hand away from her face, but it was a few moments more before she regained her breath.

xxxx

On a restless Saturday evening, he was delighted when Veronica called to invite him out.

“I’m craving beer that doesn’t taste like piss. Care to join me?” She had said with little introduction. He, of course, had complied.

They ended up off campus, though not too far, at a dive bar with too-dim lights and a decent (if loud) playlist. She ordered for the both of them, and paid before he got the chance.

“I dragged you out here, after all,” she’d said when he objected.

“Dragging implies a lot more persuading than I required. Having drinks with a beautiful woman is incentive enough for me.”

She laughed like she did each time he called her beautiful, like each time was as funny as the first. It made him feel like he was fourteen again, and had never made a pretty girl laugh.

“Are all of you Crows this bold? Or is it just the Antivans?”

“Well, neither the Crows nor Antivans are known for their subtlety. I suppose my strength comes from the combination.”

“Thank god there’s only one of you, or rest of us would never stand a chance.” She shook her head, took a sip of her beer. “Tell me, do you miss Antiva?”

He gave her his stock reply first - how he missed the burn of the sun, the smell of leather, the heavy rain. But she proved to be an exceptionally good listener, and he was shocked to find himself delving into his tales from his times with the dance company, and eventually the orphanage. When he mentioned his mother, relaying her death as quickly as he could manage, she didn’t force him to dwell on the subject.

“So you’ve worked as hard as you are now for, more or less, your entire life?” Was her only difficult question.

“I probably worked harder before coming here.” He’d caught a glimmer of emotion in her gaze here, and hastily dodged her eyes. “But it could’ve been worse. At least I had the talent for it.”

Eventually the beer had its way with him, and he had to excuse himself to the bathroom. When he came out, Veronica had a human man looming over each shoulder.

“I see you’ve found friends,” he said when he slipped back into seat, his tone anything but friendly. He knew men like this, men who preyed on elven girls they thought to be defenseless. To her credit, Veronica sat like she had a steel rod in her back, refusing to cower even beneath hostile gazes.

“We were just inviting the lady to hang out with us.” The one on her left, the taller of the two, placed a hand on her shoulder. Veronica stiffened, but she remained silent and still. “You wouldn’t mind that, right?”

His grin, full of malice, relayed the subtext: that, even if he did mind, he was an elf, and they were men. His grin faltered when Zevran rose from his seat.

“I’d mind quite a bit, actually. And I think it’d be best if you two got on with your night.”

The man turned red, his false smile gone. He took his hand off of Veronica and stepped towards Zevran.

“If you’re not going to be friendly, I think it’s in your best interest to get out of here,” he said. “Let the rest of us have some fun.”

Zevran opened his mouth to retort, but stopped when Veronica wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

“We’re going,” her voice was quiet but firm, and she kept her eyes on Zevran. “Let’s go.”

She led him out the door before he could respond. Her body was tensed, poised for attack, until they’d walked into an alley on the side, where she exhaled a long breath and relaxed against a brick wall. He watched her carefully.

“I don’t know how things work in Antiva,” she finally said, “but around here, picking a fight with humans will land you in prison, and that’s if you’re lucky.”

“As I recall, we weren’t the ones picking the fight.” He crossed his arms.

“Doesn’t matter to them. Pointy ears means you’re in the wrong, no matter how many civil rights laws get passed.”

“Surely it can’t be so bad.”

“Oh, but it is.” She fell silent for a lengthy stretch of time, but her expression was contorted like she still had something to say.

“I had a fiance, back when I lived in the alienage.” Zevran’s jaw dropped open, and she quickly added, “I wasn’t crazy about the idea, but arranged marriages help you survive in the ghettos, and I wasn’t about to fight something that could potentially help my father. Don’t look at me like that, do you think I’d be here with you if things hadn’t fallen through?” She laughed, but the sound was dark, cold, and he could not respond to it.

“The wedding got interrupted. Some rich human boys got it in their heads to harass the brides, my cousin fought back, they dragged us girls off and the rest is a tale as old as time. Me and my fiance roughed the guys up pretty bad trying to get everyone out - if I hadn’t been recruited by the Wardens, I’d be in prison right now.” She gave him a wry smirk. “Duncan, my advisor, cleared things up, got me off with a self-defense charge and some community service. My fiance’s still in jail. And the bastards never so much as went to trial for what they did to Shianni.”

Her gaze was cold, glaring at the sidewalk. Unsure of what to do, he stepped forwards, putting his hand on hers. Her grip relaxed to slip her fingers into his.

“You can’t just do whatever you want in this city. Not when you look the way we do.”

“Thank you for the warning,” he said softly. “In the future, I will be more prudent.”

He’d always thought dancers were the strength of the art school kids, that the music and theater kids must be soft. But that night he looked at Veronica and she was made of diamond, unbreakable with her glinting eyes and her clenched jaw. She had pulled him out of trouble, surely, and they were better for it. But if it had come to it, he was certain Veronica would have delivered ten, twenty fold the damage the men would do to her. Bitter as the thought was, it filled him with delight, and he couldn’t help but bring a hand to touch her cheek.

“You look tense, my dear. Tell me, have you ever had an Antivan massage?”

Just like that, the tension eased from her face, and the laugh she gave him was warm. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly, her hand cupped around his cheek, her lips still upturned. She kissed like she talked; soft and responsive, something you could lose yourself in before realizing you were lost. It didn’t take long for it to deepen, for the taste of her lips to bring forth all his hunger for her. The ride home was fast, and he kept his hands on her the whole time.

_Reprise_

They’ve been hooking up for three months since, and Veronica feels much like she’s been swimming in the ocean and, suddenly, realizes a current’s caught her up. Unlike many men, his libido isn’t all talk - he underplays his skills in the bedroom, if anything - but even the sex is beginning to be a poor incentive for continuing to come back. Unfortunately, she may be past any point of return.

For one, somewhere between practice sessions and post-practice session festivities their friend groups have managed to intertwine. Veronica now knows more dancers than she’d ever thought she’d care to, and she’s stumbled across Zevran, Sten and Morrigan having lunch together more than once. She is sure that even if she did break things off, he wouldn’t hold it against her. But she can’t guarantee their friendship wouldn’t turn awkward, and a month short of her showcase this isn’t a risk she’s willing to take.

There is also the small matter, of course, of her affections for him; that, while she knows the entanglement can’t be good for her, the thought of breaking things off fills her with dread, that she finds a comfort in his arms she never thought was possible. These feelings are best bottled up, though, as she knows the odds of reciprocation aren’t in her favor.

It is the pillow talk, always, that wrenches her heart, because the things he whispers into her neck when they are on top of each other, breathing heavy, she can chalk up to the heat of the moment. But afterwards, in the dark, when he says, “You are the loveliest thing I’ve ever held,” with his hands in her hair - these are the kind of words that make things complicated.

They tend to go to parties separately, even while knowing they’ll leave together. It takes an hour, maybe two, but eventually one gravitates towards the other. Their friends let them slip away early, hand in hand, without saying a word. Tonight, the chill in the air is stronger than her buzz and her sweater, and Veronica finds herself shivering. She can still taste red wine in her mouth, even though she stopped drinking half an hour prior, and after Zevran bends in to kiss her he grimaces.

“My dear, have you been drinking?” He quirks an eyebrow and keeps a perfectly straight face. But she does not - she laughs, and laughs, even while she is freezing.

xxxx

He is not a jealous man, he reminds himself for the seventh time that night. Even so, his eyes won’t leave Veronica and Alistair, who’ve been huddled in the corner for an unsociable amount of time. They talk with their faces much closer together than Zevran would assume natural for a conversation between friends, and he has never been a stickler for personal space. Even so, this should not be the root of the feeling in his gut that is sticky and black. And, if it is, why can’t he force himself to go and interfere? The only answer he can come up with is that, since meeting Veronica, he has not been himself.

“What’s the deal with them?” Isabela must have followed his gaze, and stares lecherously at the pair. “Alistair doesn’t seem the type who’s keen on sharing.”

“That is, I believe, the deal,” he answers. Veronica may have told him this in confidence - he isn’t positive - but, for some reason, he can’t hold his tongue. “The two of them were involved awhile back but, alas, one Warden was more invested than the other, and made a regretful request for monogamy.”

“Obviously, he wasn’t getting that,” her glance flickers up and down Veronica.

“No, he wasn’t. She broke things off, but they’ve apparently managed to remain friends.”

The corners of Isabela’s mouth flick up and she narrows her eyes, like a cat who’s spotted a mouse. “Oh, hell no. There’s no way the two of them are just friendly. Just look at them.”

“I am,” he deadpans. He can feel his annoyance shifting to a nearer target and, despite the inkling that it is misplaced, lets it fester. Who is she to claim she can see what’s between two people she hardly knows? “That is just the way they are. You haven’t been around them that often, or you would know.” And, while he’s saying the words, they ring true to him.

Isabela, with her single lifted eyebrow, doesn’t look as convinced. “I’ll take your word for it,” she concedes anyways, crossing her arms. “But only because I’m bored. Want to get out of here?”

The offer fills him with relief, and he follows her out of the humid, stale room and into the cold. With a breath of icy air in his lungs, he finds it easier to smile. Instinctively, he’s walking back to Isabela’s place, and the two of them are talking and laughing like they did when they were freshmen. But when her building comes into view, looming over the horizon, he is filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. He walks her to the door and excuses himself. He goes home alone.

xxxx

“I have something for you.”

Veronica isn’t sure how he knows she’s awake, but she turns to face him.

“Is it my birthday?”

She expects him to laugh, but the guffaw he gives is stuttering and nervous.

“It’s not exactly a gift. I’m returning something borrowed, really. If you can consider taking without permission and without the intention to return borrowing.”

At this, she reaches across the bed to switch on the lamp. Light floods the cramped room, exposing Zevran, who looks abashed - a rare thing.

“The suspense is killing me,” she smiles, hoping to lighten the mood. He doesn’t respond to her, but simply opens his hand, and when she sees what he holds her heart skips a beat.

“You were probably too drunk to realize I’d taken this, poor thing,” now, with her golden earring dangling in between them, he is able to smile. “I thought it was past time I returned it.”

She is flooded with warmth when he puts the earring in her palm, can’t stop herself from smiling. That he would think to take her earring again delights her; that he’s given it back to her does doubly so. But her smile fades just as fast, the warmth leaves like her veins have turned to ice, when she realizes that there is a four letter word to put to the emotion she is feeling, that this feeling has been with her for much longer than just now, and that it will be with her no matter what she does next. She closes her eyes, closes her fingers into a fist.

“Is this a token of affection?” her voice leaves her softly. She does not want to hear his answer. She feels like she’s heard it already.

“I wouldn’t call it that.” His smile is in his voice, visible without her even looking. “Just take it, please.”

For a moment, she considers biting her tongue. But before she knows it, she’s putting the earring back in his hand.

“I only want it if it means something,” she says, ignoring the twist in her gut when his face falls.

“You are a very frustrating woman to deal with, you know? Fine. You don’t want the earring? You don’t get the earring. Very simple.” He all but slams the earring on to the nightstand, and gets out of bed without another word. She considers going after him, but decides to give him space (and, besides, she doesn’t want to face him while he’s angry). Listening to him storm around his apartment, she rolls over and shuts her eyes. She’s asleep before he comes back to bed, and sleep doesn’t come to her easily.

xxxx

Light sleeper that he is, he wakes when she starts to rustle about regardless of how quiet she is. Even with sleep in his eyes he can sense her weight has shifted so she’s sitting.

“Lay with me for a while,” he says, his eyes still shut. “I don’t know what you’ve got planned, but I’m sure I can think of something more entertaining.”

He grasps blindly for her hand, and wraps his fingers around her wrist. The bed creaks when she rises and, feeling her heat slip from him, he finally opens his eyes.

Veronica doesn’t look at him, her expression fixed in a stony mask. There is something amiss, he thinks, as she walks across the room and out the door with silent resolution. He’s trying to decide where he went wrong when she appears in the door frame again, her brow knit together, and knocks her fist into the wall.

“I’m in love with you.” She spits the words out like she’s been cursed to speak even while she’s fighting not to. His mind is static, thoughts all white noise, his heart racing, while he watches her expression close. “That’s what I thought.”

And then she is gone, the moment over even while he hears her stomping through the flat. In a panicked haze, he grabs the phone on his nightstand, texts _I may be in love with you, too_ , and hits send. He jumps at the sound of her phone buzz in the next room, and his heart is in his throat for the amount of time it must take for her grab it off some counter and look.

There is a clatter, the sound of something hitting wood at high speed, and she yells, “Fuck you,” so loud that it echoes. She slams the door on her way out, and he can hear her stomps fading down the hall. When she is finally gone, the silence is eerie.

He pulls himself out of bed, his chest heavy, head aching, throat burning for a glass of water. The kitchen is a mess, an innocent victim of her anger. He finds her phone in the sink with a fresh crack splitting down the middle of the glass.

His name is on the top of a stack of unread texts. He swipes to open her phone. Of course, she would have no passcode.

He deletes his text. Maybe one day, when he is braver, he will send it again. Today, he drinks a glass of water from the tap and crawls back into bed.

xxxx

Zevran only calls her when he’s drunk. She only answers when she is, too. He attends rehearsals sparingly anymore, and while the date of the showcase is quickly approaching she can’t blame him for playing hooky. If the roles were reversed, she’d want to spare his feelings too. Morrigan reminds her that he’s been an ass, when she starts thinking like this; Alistair grumbles about warning her, which is the opposite of helpful.

Recently, socialization has lost its luster, and if her friends do manage to drag her out she excuses herself early. This is just the case tonight, and she slips away without saying goodbye. She takes her steps slow, watching her breath float away in dusty clouds, and tries not to feel the cold pressing around her. Her phone tickles her leg, and she draws it out without looking at the screen.

“Hello?”

“Veronica, my dear.” Zevran’s voice rings through the line, and she chides herself for feeling grateful. “You’re going to find this terribly funny, I suppose, but I’m lying on the ground in front of Talisen’s house and I can’t seem to get up.”

She can just find it in her to sound stern, replying, “I’m sure Talisen is much closer to his house than I am.”

He says, “He certainly is, but I want to see you,” and of course she caves.

At least when she reaches the apartment, Zevran is still splayed on the grass. Keeping her steps quiet, she treads over and lies down beside him. The ground is much more dewy than she’d expected.

“You know, it’s a little late in the year for this kind of behavior,” she says. The sky overhead is clouded, too polluted to really be breathtaking, but she keeps her gaze fixed on it.

Zevran laughs. “I hadn’t thought about that until I’d actually lay down here. Don’t worry, you’ll be used to it in a couple minutes.”

“I thought I came to get you up.”

“Surely you can spare a few minutes.”

A part of her begs her not to argue. He doesn't ask for much, she certainly hasn’t got other plans and she has missed lying beside him so. But her pride burns and, with a sigh, she pulls herself upright.

“I came to help you, Zev, not to catch my death.” She moves to stand, but he grabs her wrist before she can.

“Please, amora, don’t be upset. I knew you wouldn’t come unless I tricked you, and I just wanted you to come.”

Now she looks back at him, finds him smiling, damn him, and fury rises to her throat.

“If you missed me so much,” her voice is cutting, and she is glad to see the smile drop from his face, “maybe you should stop avoiding me.”

He stares at her, silent as ever in the face of confrontation, and Veronica realizes with dreadful clarity that this could well be it for the two of them. She cannot continue giving pieces of herself to someone who can’t decide if he wants them.

“It doesn’t matter.” She pulls her hand from his grasp. “Show up for the showcase, at least. After that you can go to hell for all I care.”

Expecting to once again depart without argument, she freezes when Zevran says, “Wait, please. Don’t storm off.” His voice is cracked and soft - she’s never heard him so defeated. She turns to see he’s sitting upright, his mouth turned down, eyes wide and hurt, and all her anger fizzles away.

“What reason is there for me to stay?” she tries to speak gently. “You’ve made it clear where you stand on this issue. And I get it, I do, but you’ve got to understand that this is hell for me.”

“You think I find this easy?”

“It’s not the same,” she snaps. “You don’t care for me like I do for you. Don’t think I want to be in love with you - Maker knows things would be simpler if I wasn’t - but I am. And I can’t handle you being soft with me anymore, saying things like you miss me, when you only mean it halfway.”

He opens his mouth only to shut it, his gaze growing narrow. Veronica thinks that, finally, she may have gotten through to him, when he speaks again.

“That can’t truly be what you think, mi amora. Surely you must know I would die for you - just say the word.” He reaches to touch her hand again, and she tells herself she’d move away if it wasn’t so cold. “I am your man, after all. Without reservation.”

His eyes are so clear, she almost takes him for his word. But the rational part of her mind reminds her he’s drunk, dramatic, and hasn’t spoken to her in a week. So she stands, after all.

“I’ll help you up,” she says. “But then I’m going home.”

_Finale_

He’s never been one for pre-performance jitters, but today Zevran’s hands shake like leaves in the wind. The rest of the group, scurrying about in a fury, have been too occupied to notice. Only Leliana took the time to lay a hand on his shoulder and smile. Veronica might’ve done something similar, but he hasn’t seen her all afternoon.

It is very, very possible that he will ruin everything in one swoop. If he were a smarter man, he’d tuck his emotions away for one more evening, accept that tonight is just not the time. But, on the other hand, he can’t help but feel he must speak now or forever hold his peace; that tonight is the only time left for him, and if he waits longer the opportunity will be lost forever. So, for the first time in years, his hands shake.

The musicians - seven of them now, including the dwarf and old lady Veronica had manage to dig up - are already on stage, and the cacophony of tuning instruments wafts just over the jumbled laughter of the crowd. Zevran hangs backstage, peering through the curtains, but can only see a sliver of the audience and the back of Alistair’s golden head. Slowly, the tuning tapers off, the lights dim overhead, the audience goes quiet. Electricity in his veins, Zevran anticipates that first familiar note. When he hears it, it vibrates through him, and he moves onto the stage.

His motions course through him like second nature. He knows each beat of this song like the back of his hand, hears every crescendo before it happens, and still he is flooded with emotion each time like the first. So much has changed since he first offered Veronica Tabris his services - knowing all that he does now, he wonders, would he agree to help her with her showcase? Would he still take a seat beside her? Still let her catch his hand?

His feet are moving faster, and he has to work not to rush ahead of the tempo. The finale is approaching like a storm, his heart is thunder in his throat, and the glossy black piano seems a dark cloud on the horizon. He moves towards it, even while he is petrified.

Veronica only looks up at him once, and her eyebrows rise, but the motion of her hands doesn’t stumble. As he gets close, dancing around her without grazing her, her shoulders tense. Still her playing doesn’t falter and, as he bends his choreography to center her, she sways beside him. They dance as a pair, even if she is seated, even if she doesn’t know it. When her hands lift from the keys, finally, he is out of breath.

Her gaze is wide and questioning - she looks torn between a laugh and a scream. After a beat, she rises from the piano, and the building around them seems to explode. The audience stands, claps, whistles, but to Zevran it all is so much less stunning than Veronica smiling beside him. She’s ready to move and, before she can, he takes her hand and places his heart inside of it.

For a moment she is startled, her mouth dropping open. He watches her feel what it is, sees her smile grow before she cracks her fingers open to glimpse her earring. Amid the roar of the applause she looks up to grin at him, only him, and he is certain: given a time machine, there are a thousand things he could go back and change. But if all of his mistakes have culminated in this, thunderous moment, perhaps he hasn’t done so poorly after all.


End file.
